


tu donnes un son à ma vie

by fulldaysdrive



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental love confessions through song, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/pseuds/fulldaysdrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire, having recently rediscovered his beloved childhood ukulele, enjoys serenading his friends “like a crap Julien Doré.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tu donnes un son à ma vie

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by stumbling upon Julien Doré's lovely (and hilariously serious and earnest-sounding) [cover](https://youtu.be/Z2aL1hrV1PM?t=1m11s) of K.Maro's ["Femme Like U"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_A5jF--F1Q). Although, [this live video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giJW-Zyo0UU) is a bit closer to the performance featured in this story, including the amused laughter from the audience in response to the first few lines.

To anyone who knew him, Grantaire's birthday party was surprisingly low-key. Then again, it was being thrown by his roommates on his actual birthday, on a weeknight, so perhaps it wasn't quite as odd as one might think. (“We can all hit the clubs and get crazy on the weekend, R,” Bossuet had said. “But it's a school night, so _this_ party will involve hanging out in silly hats and eating cake.” Joly nodded profuse agreement. Or maybe he was just really looking forward to cake.)

So far, it was a pretty good time. Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet's apartment was not exactly huge, but with a bit of effort could manage to hold about a dozen lounging people comfortably. All the regulars of their club had made it, even Enjolras, who to Grantaire's knowledge barely considered him an acquaintance, much less a friend. Granted, he hadn't left Combeferre's side all night, so Grantaire had suspicions about whether or not the guy was actually here willingly, but Enjolras was relaxed and his face didn't look constipated or anything. Based on that alone, Grantaire was willing to categorize his presence as Not A Disaster.

Still, though. Birthday boy or not, after the obligatory welcome-to-the-party greeting, Grantaire kept himself to the opposite end of the room. A lack of fighting and dramatics (or, well, snippy comments and snark-filled counter-attacks that might possibly lead to fighting and dramatics) is a good thing, after all. It did not go unnoticed.

“You're never going to get anywhere by keeping away,” Éponine informed him. They were both sprawled across each end of Joly's impractical-looking yet somehow structurally sound mamasan loveseat. “Grow a spine and _talk_ to him, god. Staring at him from across the room isn't doing you any favors.”

“I don't want him to hate me more than he already does,” Grantaire muttered weakly. “You know me, I'll end up running my mouth off and then everything will be terrible for the rest of the evening.”

“He doesn't hate you. He barely knows you. And avoiding conversations forever isn't going to make him your friend either.” Éponine rolled her eyes. “And you _want_ him to be your friend, don't you?”

Well, yes. That sounded great. But Grantaire also wanted to kiss and cuddle Enjolras, and do really delightfully creative things to him with his tongue, and then afterward have him whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Or a scathing critique of the current government's policies in frighteningly organized, itemized detail. Whatever.

Ugh, he wasn't going to waste precious party time thinking about how much he actually _wanted_ that last thing. This was his birthday, and he was going to enjoy himself.

He reached down to grab his ukulele off the floor, and then gave it a strum. “Today I don't feel like doing anything,” he began, and Éponine snorted. She knew what he was doing — abrupt not-even-segues were kind of Grantaire's thing — but she let it slide. She liked this song, and he knew it. It was about her turn to be serenaded, anyway.

The ukulele was Grantaire's current rediscovered true love. It had mouldered away neglected until he'd unearthed it from an ancient box that had stayed sealed for the last few apartments and dorm rooms. It had been a very long time since he'd played it, but endless afternoons of practice don't just vanish into the ether, and he'd picked it up again very quickly.

So today he'd gotten it out with the intention of playing it during the birthday song, and didn't put it away afterward. It was fun playing songs to his friends “like a crap Julien Doré.” (As he'd said this, Grantaire's voice and face together had been a veritable singularity of dryness. “Ahh, but you're _our_ crap Julien Doré,” Bahorel had replied as he pulled him close to give him a big kiss on the cheek, purposefully exaggerating the loud smacking noises.)

“...nothing at all,” Grantaire finished a few minutes later, to scattered applause. He grinned and gave a little bow.

“That's everyone in this part of the room done,” Musichetta said. She was snugly ensconced in one of Joly and Bossuet's horrifically shabby yet incredibly comfortable corduroy armchairs. Joly sat on the carpet at her feet, receiving a head rub. Grantaire wasn't quite sure if he was completely awake; Musichetta's head rubs were made of magic and wonder. He had a momentary feeling of envy, but had to concede that boyfriends have higher head rub priority over nonboyfriends, even when it was the nonboyfriend's birthday. He made a mental note to ask for one later in the evening.

Grantaire blinked; Musichetta was still talking. “Say what?”

She gestured to the other side of the room with a tilt of her head. “You should head over that way, and stop neglecting the rest of your guests. Maybe sing something to Enjolras.” A sly tone entered her voice at that, accompanied by the meaningful arching of a single perfect eyebrow.

“Uh.”

“Do it!” Joly wasn't asleep after all. His now-open eyes were bright and encouraging. “You don't want him to feel left out, do you? _That's_ not friendly.”

“Oh my god, you guys,” Grantaire muttered.

“Seriously,” Éponine grumbled into her beer bottle, “ _grow a spine_.”

Grantaire darted a glance across the room. Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Jehan were all perched on stools around the counter that separated the living area from the kitchen, playing some board game they'd dug out of Bossuet's mystifyingly eclectic collection. Combeferre was gesticulating animatedly, though whether he was talking about the game or an amusing anecdote about his day or string theory, Grantaire had no idea, as they were too far away to overhear. Jehan didn't seem to be listening, as he was scrutinizing the art on the game's box with a decidedly dubious frown. Feuilly and Enjolras, on the other hand, were both very attentive, Enjolras's face scrunched up in concentration as he listened, and Grantaire kind of hated how endearing he found that expression just then.

“They look a little busy,” he said hesitantly.

Musichetta rolled her eyes. “I'm sure they can afford being distracted from _Tulipmania 1637_ for a few minutes.” Her eyebrows now communicated vast disappointment at Grantaire's blatant show of cowardice.

Grantaire caught Joly's eye and mouthed, “ _Tulipmania_?”

“It's based on a Dutch market crash that happened in, guess when, 1637,” Joly replied with a shrug. “Bossuet won it in a raffle at the last board game society meetup. Isn't it just like him, getting a game about speculation in a bursting economic bubble?” Meaning, the kind of game Bossuet would never, ever touch. “I'm just glad someone finally was interested enough to open it up.”

“Sounds _fascinating_ ,” Éponine drawled. “So fascinating that it would be _such a crime_ for you to interrupt, R, I mean god, how can we even think about making you go over to say hi because _what will happen to their tulip investments—_ ”

Grantaire made a noise that was half-laugh, half-groan, throwing up a hand to forestall any more. “Fine, god, okay!” With the air of the unspeakably beleaguered, he rose from the mamasan like a kraken from the depths of the eldritch sea, ukulele in hand.

“Yes!” Joly whisper-shouted his encouragement. “You can do it!”

“Knock 'em dead, tiger,” added Musichetta with a wink.

Sometimes Grantaire wondered how exactly he hadn't yet died of the mortification of knowing that most of his friends were well aware of his truly horrific crush on Enjolras.

The most annoying part of this whole crush situation was how very unlike himself Grantaire was acting about it. Usually he was pretty up-front at addressing his own feelings and pursuing the company of someone he liked. There was just something about Enjolras, though. It wasn't exactly that he was intimidating — although when he wanted to be, Enjolras definitely _could be_ intimidating, holy shit — but Grantaire found he enjoyed taking him in from a distance.

And of course, there was Enjolras's unquestionable dislike of him. That made things a tiny bit difficult.

Grantaire was a relatively recent member of the group; he'd only moved in with Joly and Bossuet a couple of months ago. Shortly after they found that they were quite compatible not only as roommates but as friends, they'd brought him along with them to one of their social justice club meetings, where he'd befriended most of the group at once while somehow also managing to earn Enjolras's antipathy within several minutes. Initially, he'd put it down to bad first impressions; that day he had been recovering from a pretty awful hangover. He hadn't shaved, or bothered to change out of a grubby hoodie and a pair of jeans with holes that weren't of the fashionably distressed kind. (“At first I actually kind of thought you were a hobo Joly wanted to feed,” Cosette had told him, apologetically.)

While Grantaire wasn't any kind of an activist, he enjoyed the company enough that he let his roommates talk him into coming back for the next meeting. He liked being around genuinely good people. And he really, really found Enjolras amazing to watch, especially when he got going on a topic he cared about. (And there were _so many_ topics.) Soon enough, he found himself a regular, though not one that contributed much. He figured that was the real reason Enjolras didn't seem to care for him. Their interactions mainly involved Grantaire saying something quippy to the room at large to get some laughs, and Enjolras frowning in response. Outside of a couple of short exchanges, they actually hadn't had any real conversations. Grantaire once entertained the idea that Enjolras didn't have a sense of humor, but watching him interact with people he actually considered friends disabused him of _that_ notion. The guy just didn't like him.

Grantaire was happy not giving him more reasons to keep on disliking him. However, Éponine was right. He might not be actively trying to make things worse, but things weren't exactly getting _better_ , either.

It would be really, really nice to make Enjolras smile, for a change.

With this thought in mind, he made his way across the living room. He already had a song in mind.

The problem with Grantaire, though, was that even with the best intentions, there was always a pretty good chance that the _execution_ of whatever current great idea he had in mind wasn't going to go quite as well as he would imagine. Grantaire was self-aware enough to realize this. He could acknowledge that Enjolras _might not_ appreciate having this particular song sung to him, but at the same time everyone knew by now that Grantaire was kind of an ass, so he was going to go for it.

At least he was in his own apartment, and could retreat to his room if things went too badly.

It was his party, after all. He could hide if he wanted to.

And since it doesn't really take that long to traverse a room, well. There he was, ukulele at the ready, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Feuilly and Jehan, who were facing his direction, naturally noticed him first. The former's sudden frozen, uncertain posture and the latter's wide-eyed and delighted expression quickly clued in Enjolras and Combeferre, who turned around in their seats.

“Hey Enjolras.” Grantaire's voice sounded far too casual to his own ears. He inwardly cursed his nerves.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Oh, yes, this was happening. Grantaire began to strum. “Are you ready, dude?”

“For what?” It was obvious Enjolras knew that there was music in his immediate future. His look of wariness did not subside. Which was understandable. Grantaire could see in his peripheral vision that all eyes in the room were on them. Even Cosette and Marius, who had been off in their own little world and hogging the giant beanbag chair in the corner, had stopped making out or playing pattycake or whatever to see what Grantaire was about to do.

“Donne-moi ton coeur, baby, ton corps baby, yeah,” Grantaire began, and oh.

Oh, the look on Enjolras's face. Well, probably the looks on everyone's faces were all golden, but Grantaire, as usual, only had eyes for Enjolras while he was the focus of that singular attention and _oh_ , the confused frown that turned into what could only be described as a grimace of incredulous recognition, was glorious.

 

(Almost immediately after Grantaire vacated his seat, Courfeyrac had sauntered by and stolen it. He had a preternatural sense for shenanigans, but also the common sense to stay away from explosions should they seem likely to occur. Still, he wasn't prepared for this. “Oh my god,” he breathed.

Bahorel, having just returned from the kitchen with a drink, sat himself down on the floor next to Joly. “Damn. He's taking that Julien Doré thing to _heart._ ”)

 

Grantaire kept going, ignoring the sounds of choked disbelieving laughter all around him. Along with Enjolras's heart and body, he also asked for his rock, soul, and good old funk. His attack of nerves was quickly dying down. He'd forgotten when a fun song this was, even ridiculously slowed-down as a ukulele ballad.

“Je veux un homme like you pour m'emmener au bout du monde, un homme like you, heyyy.”

 

(“I told him to have a conversation with him, not hit on him via Noughties dance tunes,” Éponine muttered, but there was a note of amused satisfaction in her voice.

“Does Enjolras even have a single molecule of funk in his body?” Joly mused.

From the beanbag corner, Marius wondered, “Is he going to sing all of it? I remember this being a pretty wordy song.”

“If he gets to the part about how they're soulmates like P Diddy and Mary J. Blige, I am going to _die_ ,” hissed Cosette.

“Hey, did you notice he changed _femme_ to _homme_ in the first refrain?” murmured Feuilly to Jehan.

“And he's doing the girl parts!” Jehan replied enthusiastically. “I wouldn't call Enjolras any kind of a 'bad boy' though.”

“Well, he _has_ been arrested twice,” said Combeferre.)

 

By the time Grantaire started the first proper verse, Enjolras's face was pink, but he no longer looked mortified, exactly. He didn't seem like he was about to explode or storm out of the room, anyway. His expression had settled into that of weary resignation, although there was also something about the pursed line of his lips that Grantaire couldn't read.

Which was fine, because he didn't need to be distracted by the thought of Enjolras blowing up at him when he was busy concentrating on the lyrics. This was originally a dance hit, comprised of over-the-top fulsome compliments to the object of the singer's affection. Sung slower and as a ballad, though, some of these lines came off much more heartfelt than Grantaire would have expected.

“—J'ai le mal qui fuit, tu donnes un son à ma vie—”

He felt the half-smirk that had been on his face vanish abruptly, replaced by something shyer, more tentative.

 

(“Is it me, or did the mood just change?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice hushed.

“It is sounding kind of... uncomfortably honest,” replied Éponine.

“Oh my god,” Joly whispered. He clasped his hands tightly and threw a look of utmost concentration at Grantaire.

Musichetta took her eyes off the spectacle before them. “Joly, darling, what... are you doing?”

“I am thinking very hard at R and trying to let him know how proud I am. Telepathically.”

“Oh, honey.”)

 

The way Enjolras was looking at him was kind of nervewracking. He was frowning, but it was not the usual annoyed scowl Grantaire was used to; he looked puzzled, contemplative, and there was some kind of new brightness to his stupidly gorgeous blue eyes that Grantaire couldn't figure out but still found utterly unfair. Grantaire continued to sing his actual literal feelings at him. That this... performance, whatever, had quite suddenly ceased being a joke, was apparent to both of them. Grantaire reached the halfway point of the first verse, sang the lines about how the look on Enjolras's face was the reason he kept coming back again, and paused for a split-second. The rest of the song from there got progressively more and more ridiculous, and to be honest it was more than he really wanted to sing. And of course, there was that line in the second verse about being soulmates like Diddy and Mary J. Blige and, just, no. He realized he didn't want to break this new strange rapport between them. He didn't want Enjolras to stop looking at him like that.

Instead, he went back and repeated the refrain, continuing to sing the words with rather appalling sincerity. What was previously delivered jokingly, that Grantaire wanted a man like Enjolras, now came out like a confession. _Bad boy, you know that I like you._ Well, at this point, he had to know.

Grantaire's voice faded at the last _hey_ , and he found he didn't want this to end. He continued to strum, his eyes on Enjolras's face. He was no closer to figuring out what the other guy was thinking. After half a minute or so, he let the plaintive, gentle melody slowly resolve into a wistful ending.

They stayed like that for a few seconds, in the silence, Enjolras on his stool and Grantaire just standing there, regarding at each other with no less intensity than before.

Then the room broke out into applause, and the spell was broken.

“Oh my god, _finally_ , get it R!” Courfeyrac whooped from across the room.

And then, as the reality of the last several minutes dawned on him, Grantaire felt the blood rush to his face. Ah. There was the panic; his nerves hadn't deserted him at all, only given him a reprieve before descending on him again in full force, right in time for mortification to set in.

 _Shit._ Shit. _What did I just_ do _?_

He tore his gaze from Enjolras, and found he couldn't look any of his other friends in the eye.

Grantaire fled the room. He shoved past a confused Bossuet in the hallway. As he shut his bedroom door behind him, he heard Bossuet say, “I was just in the bathroom, did I miss something?”

 

He didn't get very long to stew in embarrassment and horror at himself. Only a couple of minutes had passed by — enough time to replay the whole thing in his head on fast-forward several times — when a knock sounded on his door. Grantaire winced. He really didn't want to talk about the utter, abject humiliation he had brought upon himself, whether to a supportive ear (if it was Joly) or to a really amused one that still managed to be sympathetic even when in the throes of endless snickering (if it was Éponine.)

Grantaire reluctantly lifted his head so his mouth wasn't muffled by the pillow. “I'm not here,” he called out. “I am currently chasing after what's left of my dignity, which is probably across town by now. Fucker runs fast.”

“Grantaire? Can we talk?”

Of course, it wasn't Joly _or_ Éponine.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras tried again, “please open the door.”

Nobly stifling what would have been a really undignified whimper, Grantaire got up from his bed, stalked to the door, and opened it a fraction.

“Don't you have, like, tulips to worry about?”

Enjolras blinked at him. “Can I come in?” he asked in lieu of dignifying that with a response.

Grantaire wasn't quite sure what his face was doing. This wasn't exactly a situation he ever envisioned (scary talks about Feelings with Enjolras! Enjolras in his room in reality rather than just in embarrassingly romantic fantasies!), but he drew back and opened the door wider, because it was better than having scary talks about Feelings with Enjolras in the hallway, where anyone could easily overhear.

Enjolras didn't mince words. As soon as Grantaire closed the door, he said, “Grantaire, what was that?”

Grantaire winced. He folded and unfolded his arms, then settled on putting his hands in his pockets and shrugging. He was still finding it difficult to look at Enjolras's face. His gaze fell sideways to his computer chair. “A joke that fell really, really flat?”

“You usually laugh it off when a joke goes wrong,” said Enjolras. “This time, you _ran out of the room_.”

“None of my jokes have ever failed that hard before.” Grantaire was trying his best for a casual, uncaring demeanor but knew very well he wasn't pulling it off.

There was a pause.

“I'm confused.” There was a heavy sigh. Grantaire looked up at that; Enjolras appeared frustrated and discomfited. “If it was a joke, it didn't feel like one by the time you finished. And I don't understand how that could be, because...” He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you didn't like me.”

If Grantaire's life were a film, this would be the moment where someone would have inserted a record needle scratching noise. “What,” he managed after a moment of what he considered to be _pointedly_ disbelieving silence. “You thought _I_ didn't like _you_?”

“You always seem to avoid me.” Enjolras shrugged. “At meetings, you talk to everyone but me, and you keep yourself to the opposite ends of the room at all times. You did that tonight, too. This is the longest conversation we've ever had.” The corner of his lip quirked up in a half-smile that was not the least bit happy. “Naturally I thought that meant you couldn't stand me.”

“Well, you're wrong,” Grantaire said haltingly. “I can.” He toed the carpet, making a little circle with the furrows. Éponine was going to have a field day. The I-told-you-sos were going to be a fixture in his life for the foreseeable future. “I didn't think you liked me either. I just... wanted to stay out of your way? I mean, you were the one glaring at me all the time.”

“Glaring at you? I don't glare at you?” The naked bafflement in Enjolras's voice would have been really amusing if it weren't for Grantaire's utter frustration because _Enjolras was at that moment glaring at him_.

“Dude, you're.” He attempted to wave his hand at Enjolras's face, although it was more of a flail. “You're doing it right now. That look on your face? Totally a glare.”

Enjolras paused. His expression didn't change, but acquired a sort of frozen quality, and then he pulled his phone out from his pocket to look at his reflection in the glass surface. “Huh.” He looked uncertainly back at Grantaire. “I think that's actually my trying-to-figure-things-out face?” he offered.

How was this conversation happening in this universe, rather than in the Twilight Zone? “Do you often try to figure me out?” Grantaire asked, because following that remarkable revelation, this was the logical next question he actually got to ask.

Enjolras huffed out a laugh. “God, all the time.” He ran one hand through his hair. “You confuse me. You're still quite new to the group, but everyone already seemed to love you from your first week. You don't seem to actually take part in anything, but you've never missed a meeting. I don't understand it.” Enjolras was... not glaring at Grantaire. “You're obviously a really intelligent person, but why would you waste so much of your time with us if you don't even care about what we do?”

“It's not that I don't care,” Grantaire blurted out, then stopped. “I mean.” He sighed. “You're right, all I do is screw around. I kind of can't believe you thought I hated you or something, because it should be the other way around. I find it really hard to care about the things you fight for. But when I'm around you, I want to care. All of you are amazing people.” His gaze flickered from the carpet circle back to Enjolras's eyes. “Especially you.”

There was an indecipherable look on Enjolras's face, similar to the one he wore during the second half of Grantaire's song. “Especially me,” he said slowly.

“You're amazing,” Grantaire repeated. “You're angry and passionate and determined to try to make the world better. When I listen to you talk, I think maybe you can.” He felt the flush creeping up his neck.

“So... you do like me, then?” Enjolras's voice was tentative.

The flush was not subsiding. “It's kind of more than liking,” Grantaire muttered. When Enjolras looked askance at him, he scoffed. “Come on, man, do I have to say it? I've already _sung_ it at you.”

“You want my heart and my body,” Enjolras agreed, and then he smiled, an actual happy smile, the kind he shared amongst his friends and people he genuinely liked. It brightened up his entire face. He took a step forward. “I think it's a little too soon to give those to you, though. This is, after all, only our first real conversation.”

“Uh.”

“I like you too,” Enjolras continued, “and I want to get to know you better. Maybe over lunch tomorrow?” Was Enjolras _asking him out on a date?_ “I am, actually, asking you out on a date.” At Grantaire's incredulous look, Enjolras only gave him another one of those amazing brilliant smiles. “I'm not a mind-reader. I have, however, looked at your face an awful lot in the last couple of months. Sometimes you're an open book.”

Grantaire took a moment to digest that he lived in a world where Enjolras made an intense study of his facial expressions. Then, because he was in fact not stupid, he said, “Lunch sounds good. Yeah. I'd — love to. Go on a date. With you.”

“Good.” Somehow, Enjolras's smile grew brighter, and Grantaire tried not to swoon. “Want to go back outside? You're missing your own party, you know.” He held out his hand.

Grantaire stared for a second, and then took his own hand out of his pocket. Enjolras's hand was warm, and _their fingers were intertwining_ and he thought maybe he was going to have a heart attack.

“Happy birthday,” said Enjolras.

“Yeah,” said Grantaire. He grinned as they stepped back out into the hall, making their way back to their waiting friends. “It really is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you just gotta write some silly fluff. Also, _Tulipmania 1637_ is a real game that exists.
> 
> Profuse thanks are cast joyfully into the general direction of my betas: [themerrygentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themerrygentleman), [AtypicalOwl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtypicalOwl/pseuds/AtypicalOwl), and [ADryMartini.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ADryMartini)


End file.
